


In the Skylines up Ahead

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bodyswap, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: He can’t help it, he scowls. “Wow. You know, for some Jiminy Cricket, moral compass bullshit, you’re kind of rude.”That pulls a sputtering noise out of her, the noise distinctly disbelieving. “You think I’m yourconscience?”Bellamy’s pretty sure that hearing voices in his head is bad enough, let alone the fact that it’s coming from his supposed soulmate. (Or, a bellarke soulmates au, basically.)





	In the Skylines up Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is sort of the Your Name soulmates au that I've been talking about for a while now! It definitely veered in a completely different direction as I was writing it, so don't worry about needing having seen it to understand anything.

____________________

The strangest part about this, Clarke supposes, is how there isn’t any precursor to her waking up in someone else’s body— it just sort of happens _._

It’s not like body switching is a universal kind of experience so it doesn’t occur to her that it’s exactly what’s happening until she actually looks down at herself. Everything is a little blurry, as if she’s forgotten to remove her contacts the night before, and she’s not entirely sure but she’s positive her calves are the size of tree trunks.

(There’s possibly actual _muscle_ definition there, which she is how she knows that something is definitely, _absolutely_ wrong.)

Then some strange guy barges into her room, _yelling_ , and it just seals the deal for her, really.

“Dude,” the guy says, aghast. “You’re not dressed? Jesus, Monty says you’re supposed to be invigilating a quiz in fifteen.”

For a second, she can only blink, squinting over at the figure hovering by the door. “What?”

“Twentieth century Russian history,” the guy huffs, yanking the tangle of sheets off her. She shies away, instinctive, only to remember that it’s not _her_ modesty she’s protecting. Whoever this guy is, his chest is broad and _solid_ , and it’s all tanned skin and muscle from what she can see. “The one class you convinced my boyfriend to take because you’re the T.A. for it?”

Grimacing, she props herself up on her elbows, chancing a surreptitious glance around the room. She can’t make out much with her blurry vision, but she thinks she spots an atlas on his desk, along with stacks and stacks of books. “Right,” she says, throat dry. “Uhm, Russian history. Where’s that, again?”

He curses at that, shaking his head. “You’re a fucking mess,” he mutters, picking a shirt off the ground and lobbing it over at him. “Did Jasper force-feed you one of his concoctions, is that it?”

“Uh—”

“You know what? I’m not sure I want to know.” The guy interrupts, kicking the door open. “I’ll ask Monty to text you the details. Get dressed, Blake. You have a job to do.”

 _Blake._ That’s his name, most likely, and she files it away for future reference, nodding. “Okay.”

“Seriously. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” she manages, waiting until the door eases shut behind him before she relaxes, sagging back against the bed.

_What the fuck?_

The thing is, she’s pretty sure nothing notable happened yesterday (or the entirety of last week) for it to have warranted this in the first place. She _can_ be a aggravating person, but Clarke’s also pretty sure she would have remembered if she had done something to trigger some magical, body switching curse.

Or maybe it has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with this Blake, instead.

Either way, it’s probably not the best idea to raise any attention that something’s amiss until she figures out a solid course of action, so sticking to his regular schedule seems like the right way to go.

Catapulting off the bed, she tries at the other door in the room, breathing a sigh of relief when she spots a showerhead and a small, nondescript sink. There’s a mirror right above it, and she has to shuffle close to make out the face of the person before her.

Objectively, she’ll admit that he’s attractive, all dark eyes and mussed hair and bulging muscles. Still, it’s hard to get over the weirdness of the situation to really _look,_ somehow, and she pointedly ducks her gaze away from the tent in his pants in favor of putting on some clothes. She finds a pair of jeans in the bureau by his desk, and glasses on his nightstand, which helps with the vision problem.

There’s a phone right by where she found his glasses, and she fumbles for it, nearly dropping it in her haste. The logical thing to do would be to call herself, maybe try to figure out if Blake is in _her_ body, then—

It dawns on her, suddenly, she doesn’t have a phone. Well, not since her mom cut the line, at least, and she had been working out the details for a new phone plan last night before Raven had come over and effectively derailed that.

“Fuck,” she growls, startling at the sound of his voice; raspy and low and distinctly different from her own. It’s fucking _surreal_ , at this point, but she calms herself for long enough to power his phone on instead.

He has some sort of obscure Latin quote set as his lockscreen, and she ignores it in favor of swiping to his homepage instead. There’s about fifteen different texts waiting for him, most of them from someone called Octavia (?) and a few from Monty, which she remembers the guy from before mentioning.

Carefully, she taps at it, a swear escaping when she nearly drops the phone once more. (Blake’s hands are _stupidly_ huge.)

 **Monty Green:** wru?

 **Monty Green:** seriously, I think Pike might pop a vein here

 **Monty Green:** jasper is moping because he thinks we killed u from all that moonshine, but harper says you didn’t??? Have??? A single drop??? Of it???

 **Monty Green:** miller says you’re otherwise impaired, so: Washington Hall, B3.08

The text is from five minutes ago, which means she’s probably already late _._ Shoving the phone into the pocket of her (his, ugh) jeans, she finishes dressing before pushing through the door and thundering down the stairs.

Clearly, Blake lives on campus, which is convenient though none of it helps with identifying where the fuck Washington Hall is. She’s pretty sure she’s somewhere in America, judging from the weather and architecture, but it still feels like a gamble to approach anyone, really.

She caves once she realizes she’s spent the past ten minutes wandering in circles, and it only takes her another five to get to his class— where she’s pretty much immediately berated by a grouchy, stern-faced professor. Thankfully, he keeps it short in favor of going on with the lecture (she missed the quiz, unfortunately), so she gets to slouch back to her seat, her face _burning_ the entire time.

“Rough morning?” The guy on her left says, flashing her a sympathetic look. There’s something to the tilt of his chin that makes her feel as if he knows Blake, somehow, and she looks away before she can do something stupid _,_ like confessing the confusing circumstances as to everything that has been happening in the past hour or so.

“You have no idea,” she mutters, rubbing a palm over her face before settling back to listen.

 

+

At first, Bellamy thinks he’s imagining the smell of turpentine.

It’s not _unpleasant,_ or anything. Just odd, considering the last time his room smelled like this was when Octavia decided to paint the Pantheon on his bedroom door. It had been a disaster, of course, and he slept on the couch for a week until the fumes aired out.

Still, it’s highly unlikely that Miller would try anything along the same lines, so he forces an eye open despite himself, rolling onto his back.

The first thing he sees is a mural, all swirling lines and curls and dips. _Starry night,_ he thinks to himself sluggishly, holding his hand up to the light. It’s never been a favorite of his, but the intricacy and detail to the piece is clear to see, and—

It’s not his room.

He sits up, wincing at the sharp jolt of pain that rushes through him. His head is _pounding,_ despite him not having had a drop of alcohol last night, and he knows for a fact that he didn’t go home with anyone else. It’s plausible that he’s been kidnapped, or this is Octavia’s idea of a practical joke, but he can’t say he’s a fan of either.

From what he can tell, he’s in a art studio. Large, spacious, walls fitted with floor-length mirrors—

And a girl.

He startles, backing up so quickly he nearly falls off the bed. “Fuck, shit _._ Uh— shit. I’m sorry, I don’t know how I got here, but—”

The rest of his argument dies at the back of his throat at the realization that it’s a _mirror,_ not an actual person, which means—

He drops his gaze back down to himself, and okay, he has _breasts,_ which means he needs to look away now before he can do something stupid, like stare. There’s a lot more things that he should be focusing on, anyway, like apparently how he’s trapped in someone else’s body with no inkling of how it happened in the first place, or with any idea of how to fix it.

Forcing a deep breath through his lungs, he gets to his feet, surveying the room before him. It’s morning, and a quick peek outside the window reveals that he’s in some sort of suburban area; all pastel clapboard houses and neatly manicured lawns. It’s an odd place for an art studio, but there’s nothing about the situation that isn’t.

He’s considering if he should look up _bodyswap help_ or _bodyswap tips_ on Google when he hears a loud _thunk_ ; one of the heavy doors sliding open as someone ducks in, whistling under their breath.

(Under ordinary circumstances, Bellamy’s not one to complain about meeting attractive individuals at nine in the morning bearing coffee and donuts, but it’s hard to summon any enthusiasm considering his situation. At least he’s wearing an apron with one of those little name tags, which tells him that his name is _Lincoln_.)

“Hey,” Lincoln says, smiling as he sets the packages down onto a countertop. “You sleep okay?”

“Fine,” he shoots back, automatic. The voice is distinctly different from his, which is something he expected since he first realized what the fuck was going on, but it still makes him flinch, just a little. “Uh. Mostly, I guess. I don’t know.”

That pulls a frown out of him, concern knitting at his brow. “Everything okay, Clarke?”

 _Clarke._ He doesn’t know her, that’s for sure, but he can’t help the stirring of recognition in his gut at the sound of it. “Right,” he groans, rubbing at his face. “Look, man. I’m not— you should know that I’m not her, okay? This is going to sound crazy, but—”

“I get it,” he interrupts, his gaze softening. Then, reaching over to squeeze at his (her, ugh) shoulder, “You’re not the same Clarke Griffin as before. I get that, okay?”

“Uh—”

“You’re settling in, right? Raven tells me that you’ve withdrawn all the money from your bank accounts, and that you’re getting a new phone plan.” He nods to himself, pinching at the edge of a donut. “My advice is that you sort out the bedding situation next, and get some heating for the place. It’s really cold up here at night.”

He blinks, stomach gurgling at the sight of all that glazed chocolate. Well, some things don’t change. “Heating?”

“Heating, bedding, and a better plumbing system.” Lincoln says, ticking off his fingers. “Like I said, I never intended for this place to be livable when I first got it, but with some adjustments, I think you’ll be fine.”

He must take his gaping to be a indicator of distress, somehow, because the next thing Bellamy knows, he’s telling him, “Your mom will come around soon. And in the meantime, take the day off, okay? I can handle the store by myself today.”

It all clicks when he finally catches sight of the lettering on his apron, smeared with paint and splotches of color. _Lincoln Art Supplies._ Right.

He means to say something to that; to argue or _make_ him see sense— but Lincoln’s already halfway out of the door by then, inclining his chin towards the open laptop by the countertop. “Text me if you need any help, yeah?”

“Like I’d know how,” he huffs, throwing his hands up frustratedly just as he eases the door shut with a soft _click._

 _Great._ Shaking at his head, he drops into the nearest chair he can find, burying his head into his hands. (This is, possibly, one of the weirdest dreams he’s had, and that includes the one time he dreamt of Miller pushing him in front of a bus.)

Still. At least there’s donuts.

Lifting his head, he glares over at the offending bag before swiping at them, settling in front of the laptop before him. There’s no password required, thank god, and the page is still open to a list of mobile plans available.

“You have fucking terrible taste in service providers, Clarke Griffin.” He mutters, tapping at a new tab before getting to work.

 

+

The thing is, it’s not like Clarke _means_ to pry into Blake’s life.

It’s sort of inevitable, though, considering that she has to maintain the ruse that everything’s fine. It’s how it works in the movies, right? Person A lives one day perfectly as person B, and everything goes back to normal by the time the credits roll around. (She never actually finished Freaky Friday, but she googled it, so. She’s pretty sure that’s the entire plot right there.)

And it’s not like she’s keeping track, exactly, but there are a few things that she’s picked up on him by the time the end of the day rolls around:

 

  * He’s ridiculously meticulous and organized.



A quick rifle through his bag tells her everything she needs to know, really. Loose items like keys and sticks of gum are carefully kept away in the zippered pockets, and his files and folders are _labelled._ This means that the guy actually owes a label-maker _,_ which she didn’t think anyone else actually _utilized_ but kindly old grandmas and finicky toy model collectors.

 

  * He’s a third year History major.



This one is a bit of a giveaway, with him being a T.A. for a Russian history course, but confirmation is nice either way. Professor Pike hands her his notes on Blake’s dissertation draft as she’s heading out the door, and she finds herself tracing the messy scrawl of his handwriting against the back of the page. He presses down too hard, creating angry little bumps against the page, and he loops his _g’s_ just like she does.

( _The Feminine Gaze in The Trojan War,_ she reads, before tucking it away for later. Interesting enough.)

 

  * He likes keeping busy.



His phone is bare-bones (he has _three_ whole apps downloaded other than the ones pre-installed and has fifty-five photos total) except for the calendar and reminders function, which buzzes periodically to remind her of whatever else he has going on for that day. She skims through the rest of his week during his lunch hour and discovers that he’s a T.A. for two other classes, with his afternoons are spent stacking shelves at the local bookstore while nights are spent bartending over at the dive bar close to campus.

 

  * He smokes.



… and is a bit of a grumpy asshole, if the way one of the kids in his class squeaks when she cuts her gaze over is any indication. There’s a lone packet of cigarettes stashed in the back pocket of his jeans, and there is an effortless ease in the way his body moves when she shuffles one out, slipping it between his lips.

 

  * He has a soulmate.



It’s one of those things that shouldn’t matter, but it _does,_ somehow. The whole concept of soulmates feels archaic, at times, but there’s denying that it still exists. Soul marks are rare; rare enough that it requires that people log them into a database when they appear, and she finds the little registration placard for it crumpled at the bottom of his wallet. He never filled it in, though, and she tries not to think about how she had hers logged in when she was thirteen.

(There’s a part of her that’s almost tempted, after, to look for his, but she resists. It’s not something she would appreciate if she was in his position, so she pushes the thought down in favor of learning how to make a mai tai instead.)

She’s exhausted by the time she stumbles back into his dorm, way past dawn, and _still_ in a stranger’s body. At this point, it’s hard to retain any kind of positive feeling about things going back to the way they were, really, and she finds herself deliberating if she should tell someone about the plain bizarreness of the entire situation. His co-worker, Murphy? His professor? One of the countless people blowing up his phone?

In the end, she settles for dealing with it the next day. It’s not like anyone else is awake now, anyway, and she’s pretty sure she lost feeling in her legs sometime past three in the morning.

His sheets are soft as she curls up in his bed, fully dressed and only barely managing to toe off his shoes. Elsewhere, she thinks she hears the faint buzz of his phone once more, probably the mysterious Octavia who won’t stop texting him, or Miller, who’s sending him a nonstop stream of historical memes.

(Years and years worth of history and inside jokes, none of which she is privy to. The thought of it makes her feel strangely _lonely,_ somehow, and she has to resist the urge to call Raven. Or maybe even Wells. Between the both of them, she would have been out of this situation by breakfast.)

Turning on her side, she stares down at the unfamiliar map of veins and arteries spanning down his arm; the patchwork of scars on his knuckles. A stranger. Someone whom she probably would have never met, if it wasn’t for… well. Whatever _this,_ is.

“Maybe I dreamt you,” she half-mumbles, flexing each one of his fingers in succession. Then, correcting herself hastily, “Maybe I’m dreaming you, right now. It’s what happens when something vaguely traumatic and life-changing happens, right?”

(She waits, holding her breath. For some reason, she really thought she’d get a response.)

“Forget it,” she breathes, after a beat. Beating out the lumps in his pillow, she lies back, closing her eyes. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Maybe the next time she wakes up, the nightmare would be over, and this would be nothing but a distant, fleeting memory; confusing and to be dissected during one of Glass’s infamous dinner parties.

(She’s seconds away from nodding off when she finally thinks to do it, grabbing at the sharpie by his bedside and doodling the smallest of shooting stars, right against the curve of his thumb. Just in case it’s not all a dream; a way of telling him: _I was here._ )

 

+

It’s easy to get caught up in her life, despite his best intentions— and Bellamy doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten until he catches sight of the night sky through her window.

Swearing, he rolls out the cricks in his neck, slumping back. Trying to piece together Clarke Griffin’s life is as disconcerting and confusing as he thought it would be, with a good chunk of it spent grumbling under his breath about her current life choices. (Her insurance plan? Shoddy. Her credit score is… laughable, at best, and she has her email password _written_ down in several, easy-to-find places. It’s like she _wants_ to hacked.)

He’s not all that adept at navigating through her various social media profiles or her messages, for that matter (it’s also a little too invasive for his liking, so he tries to keep that to a minimum) but it’s clear to see that she’s going through… something. He finds college withdrawal emails in her inbox, and several reassuring comments on Facebook telling her she’s _so brave_ or that _Abby will come around, someday_ and it mostly tells him what he needs to know.

Of all bodies to get stuck with, it’s one with mommy issues _and_ a Princess complex. Go figure.

Still, it’s impossible not to feel a little concerned about her whole situation. There isn’t a radiator in the studio, which means winters will be brutal, so he picks out a radiator for her. He somehow manages to wrangle a nice deal for her phone plan, too, and clears out all the takeout containers and lunchables from her fridge. There’s not a lot he can work with in terms of kitchenware, but he makes a few simple meals and stores them in tupperware for her. (It feels like the polite thing to do, really, like something he’d do for Octavia.)

Rubbing a palm over his face, he straightens, glaring at the faintly glowing screen once more. He’s been at this for hours, now, and he can feel his eyes straining with the effort of staying awake. He’s pretty sure he’s in dire need of a shower, or maybe some sustenance, but the effort of getting to his feet seems like too much to deal with.

Yanking at the afghan draped over the back of his chair, he winds it around himself, curving his cheek into the soft wool. Five minutes, just to close his eyes. Then he’ll get up, take a shower, and maybe dig into the pasta he set aside for her.

In the half-darkness, he finds his gaze focusing on the wavering screen before him; the contrast of the blue backdrop against her profile picture stark against his lids. There’s a small, distant smile on her face, eyes bright and brow cocked. Far-away and impossible to read; like every single one of the Princesses in the stories he used to tell Octavia.

“Who the hell are you,” he bites out, woozy, before letting his eyes flutter shut. (He’s already slipping away when he hears the faintest sound, voice barely raised above a whisper: _Forget it._ )

 

+

It doesn’t occur to her that the sound of frantic pounding means that someone’s at her door— well, not until she hears someone shout, “Open up, Griffin!”

Groggily, she lifts her head, wincing at the pain that shoots through her body at the movement. For some reason, she’s curled up against her chair, and she registers the random, fleeting thought that this should be _significant,_ somehow, before she’s up and on her feet, padding towards the door.

“Thank fuck,” Raven swears, pulling her into a hug the second she gets the door open. “I thought you were _dead,_ you asshole.”

It’s an odd statement to make, especially at nine in the morning, but Clarke rallies the best she can. “Huh?”

“You’re kidding, right?” she huffs, indignant. “I was emailing you all of yesterday, asking if I could come over, and you didn’t reply to a single one. I was going to just come on over, but Lincoln told me that you were probably busy with that piece for the hospital.”

“... the hospital?”

“For Arkadia General?” Raven points out, arching a brow over at her. “Something for the kid’s wing, remember? You took it on before this whole mess with your mom. I thought you’d be working on it.”

She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was going to, and then…” It all comes to her in a rush, then. Waking up in someone else’s body. Living out his day, and falling asleep in the warm cocoon of his sheets. “Oh, thank _God_.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she manages, tucking a lank lock of hair behind her ear. The surge of relief that rushes through her in the familiarity of the gesture makes her knees go a little weak. “I just— got a little caught up with other stuff, I guess. I’m going to work on it today.”

There’s a beat as Raven seems to digest this, raking her gaze over her consideringly. “Okay,” she says finally, brow furrowing. “You’re sure you’re alright, though? You look a little… twitchy.”

“I’m fine!” she chirps, giving a breathless laugh. It feels downright novel to be back in her own body, and she has to resist the urge to something crazy, like break into song just to prove that she _can._ “Look, I’m going to take a shower and wash yesterday’s stink off me, but before that— how do you feel about some breakfast?”

“Depends on if you can even find anything in there.” Raven shrugs, easing the door shut behind her. The room smells faintly of coffee and lemon pledge, strangely enough, and it’s an effort to keep her apprehension at bay as Clarke takes another step forward, surveying the room as surreptitiously as she can. “Tell me you have cold pizza, at the very least.”

She manages a small, non-committal sound in response. Someone has changed her sheets, and emptied her dishwasher, and there’s what look likes a radiator by the other end of the room, lying next to a neat pile of opened boxes from Amazon. _Seriously?_

“Clarke?”

“Sorry,” she says automatically, pushing the thought away insistently. She’ll deal with it later, once Raven’s safely out of her apartment, and once she’s had some caffeine in her. “I think I have Chinese? Or the leftovers of a croissant, from—”

She trails off at the sight of the the neatly stacked tupperware in her fridge, color-coordinated and labelled with the days of the week.

“Blake,” she breathes, the words slipping out before she can help herself. There’s no doubt that this is his doing, and it’s bewildering and thrilling all at once. He was in her body, just like she had been in his, and this would be the picture perfect ending to a movie if she _knew_ what the point of this exercise was in the first place.

Raven gives a low whistle when she emerges, prying open the lid to reveal a breakfast bagel, still wrapped in foil. “Damn, Griffin. I didn’t know you could cook. Have you been holding out on me?”

She manages a nonchalant shrug, grabbing at the toaster and plugging it into the wall. “Nah,” she says, the lie coming easy, “I signed up for this food delivery service recently. Figured I should try to make an effort.”

“Wow,” she teases, ponytail swinging as she leans over to poke at her ribs. “This is coming from the same person who told me that spaghetti on toast is an actual, nutritious meal, right?”

“I still stand by that.” Clarke reminds her, reaching over to flick at the radio. It crackles to life to NPR _,_ of all things, and she has to suppress a exasperated sigh as she twists at the dial to bring it back to her favorite station. “I’m just, you know. Branching out, a little.”

“Hmm. Any idea what prompted this?”

“Trust me,” she mumbles, the chime of the toaster and the blast of the radio _just_ loud enough to drown her out, “that’s what I’m trying to figure out myself.”

 

+

The incessant, non-stop buzzing by his ear startles him right out of sleep; his limbs flailing as he works to pull the offending object out from under his cheek.

“Hello?”

“Finally,” the voice groans, irritable. “ _God_ , Bell. Where have you been? And don’t say that you were caught up with your dissertation or whatever, because I called Murphy and I know for a fact that you were at work last night.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear, squinting slightly at the screen. It’s a little blurry, but he thinks he makes out a small, grainy figure in the snow, eyes bright and teeth showing. _Octavia._

“I just got up,” Bellamy sighs, propping himself up on his elbows. The wave of vertigo that rushes over him is enough to make him want to slump back onto the bed, but he resists, somehow. “What’s up?”

“What’s up? Seriously?” Octavia demands, barking out a sharp laugh. “You said you were coming down. I texted you all of fives times yesterday to remind you that today was the grand opening, and you _ignored_ every single one of them. My best guess was that you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

It takes a second for the words to sink in; his memories from the day before rushing back in a flood: The loft, and the overwhelming smell of turpentine and being in someone _else’s_ body, of all things. “Fuck,” he swears, rucking his hands through his hair. “Shit, O. That’s today?”

“If you’re asking if I’m launching my own business— the martial arts studio _you_ helped fund, by the way— _today_ , then, yes, Bell. That’s exactly it.” She huffs, a impatient noise escaping. “I just— God, I can’t believe you forgot.”

He groans, letting his head thump back against the wall. Distantly, he can make out the sound of music starting up, the vibrations of it pounding against his skull. “I didn’t. Well, I mean, not exactly. Yesterday was just— it was a mess, O.”

“Sure.”

“I’m really sorry, okay?”

“Don’t be _sorry_ ,” she snaps, her voice dipping out to static before resurfacing once more, “just be here.”

He nods, kneading at his temples roughly. The music from next door seems to have gotten louder _,_ if anything, and he can feel a headache rapidly forming by the space between his brows. “I’ll be there.”

“I hope so.”

“I _will._ ”

She hangs up before he can say anything else, which is just as well, considering how he needs to get dressed and going. Cursing under his breath, he gets to his feet, stumbling to the shower and peeling off his clothes haphazardly.

The water is freezing cold against his skin, but he chances it anyway, ducking under the spray. His muscles are a little sore, but that’s not unusual if Clarke had gone to work in his place. Or whoever had been in his body. (Bellamy’s not going to even _claim_ to understand anything about the events of yesterday, really. He’s just mostly glad it’s over.)

He’s soaping up when he sees it— a flash of black against his skin, the lines soft and swooping and strangely familiar.

Blinking, he steps back, holding his hand up to the light. The ink is fading, but the drawing is clear to see: a star, propelling itself down the length of his thumb; all intricate details and careful shading.

Her name comes to mind almost instantaneously, and he has to shake the thought away resolutely. It could be anyone, really. Someone flirting with him at the bar, or Monty, even—

The music rises up to a intolerable decibel at that, and he loses his train in thought in favor of rapping his fist against the wall, barely managing to shout above the noise, “Dude, _shut up_!”

He thinks he hears a indignant response on his neighbour’s part, but it’s quickly drowned out by the music once more, so loud that he can barely think.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s eight in the morning, you _asshole_. Turn it down!”

“Stop _yelling_ at me and I’ll think about it,” a voice calls out, closer than he thought, and he jerks away, eyes snapping open—

To the sight of paint-splattered fingers and a half-finished canvas.

It’s some sort of landscape, he thinks. A lake, maybe, with a boy sitting by the edge of it. What’s more surreal is the fact that he’s looking at it, somehow, _over_ his current view of his own shower wall; one image superimposed over the other. From his vantage point, it almost seems as if _he’s_ holding onto the paintbrush, somehow, despite him standing in the shower right this instant.

“What the— was that you? _Hey,_ ” he yells, trying to compel the hand to drop the paintbrush, move, anything _._ “Did you say something to me?”

“I’m trying to,” the voice cuts in, annoyed. It’s feminine, if anything, hands pale and soft and nails painted a pearly, shiny pink. There’s something in the way that she clips at her words and the roll of her tongue that _reeks_ of formality, somehow; proper and careful and measured. “If you’d just shut up, already.”

He can’t help it, he scowls. “Wow. You know, for some Jiminy Cricket, moral compass bullshit, you’re kind of rude.”

That pulls a sputtering noise out of her, the noise distinctly disbelieving. “You think I’m your _conscience_?”

“Why else would I be hearing your voice inside my head?” he counters, scrubbing at his face furiously. “Especially from someone who, no offence, kind of sounds like a prim, stuck-up Princess. It’s like someone looked into my head and designed my own personal version of hell.”

“Likewise,” she says coldly, setting her brush down with a satisfying _thump_. “I’ll have you know that I have a personal vendetta against asshole History majors with egos the size of Crete.”

It’s… surprising that she knows that, really, and it’s a bit of an effort to keep from being just slightly impressed by it. “Judging from that statement, I take it that you’re the one who spent the day in my body just yesterday?”

“Unfortunately,” she says, his view tilting as she gets to her feet, wiping at her hands on a rag. There’s a beat as she considers this, her motions jerky and hesitant. “It’s Blake, right?”

“Bellamy,” he corrects, forcing himself to take a deep, calming breath. “Bellamy Blake. And you’re Clarke.”

She shakes at her head, a dry chuckle escaping. “The one and only,” she says, wry. The tension seems to abate slightly at it, and he can’t help his own amused snort in response.

“So, Clarke Griffin,” he starts, reaching over to twist the shower knob shut. “Any idea why this is happening to us?”

He can feel the rise of her shoulder at that, the brush of her hair against bare skin. “I wish I had any idea. Pissed off any witches or deities as of late?”

“Uh, not any that I know of.”

“Me either,” she says, flopping back onto her chair. “It just— it’s so _random,_ you know? And I thought it’d be a one-time thing. To teach us a lesson, or something.”

He’s not done with his shower yet, but it seems a little weird to proceed considering how he’s pretty sure that this is a two-way sort of thing. Carefully, he extricates himself from the tub, yanking at his towel. “You’re saying that actually learned a little something from yesterday?”

“Oh, yeah.” She laughs, fumbling for her brush. There’s paint up to her wrists _,_ and he has to bite back a smile at the sight of flakes of it fluttering down to her knees. “I really fucking hate cigarettes.”

“Yeah? Well, I think baked beans and lunchables don’t count as real food.”

“I’m a starving artist,” she informs him loftily, leaning forward on her elbows. “Baked beans and lunchables are perfectly adequate sources of nutrition.”

This time, he can’t quite hold back on his snort. “Yeah, if you’re _six_.”

“Shut up.”

“Trust me, I want to.” He tells her, keeping his gaze fixed on the single crack against his bathroom wall, paint chipped and peeling in spots. “I have to say that this is a marked improvement from the full-body immersion crap we experienced yesterday, though.”

“About that,” she says, and he can practically feel her lips twisting into a frown, “assuming this isn’t a one-time thing, what are we going to do the next _that_ happens? Because I can assure you, I wasn’t a very convincing Bellamy Blake.”

“Me either,” he manages dryly, suppressing a shiver at the gust of cold air that sweeps over his body. “Exchange numbers, I guess? We’ll be able to keep each other in the loop. I’ll drop you an email.”

She makes a small noise of agreement at that. “Yeah, well. At least you’re familiar with e-mail.”

“Hey, I _resent_ that accusation.”

“You’re not even on Facebook,” she says, edges of her lips twitching. “Who doesn’t have _Facebook_ in this day and age?”

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “People who appreciate privacy. Besides, you’re one to talk. You own a radio, but not a radiator?” It occurs to him, then, that he can still hear the same beat from before, the sound almost muffled, but—

“It’s _you,_ ” he groans, throwing his hands up. “Tell me you’re not the one with this bad eighties song stuck in your head.”

“Hey, this song is a modern classic.”

“And I don’t care,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest reflexively. “I just want it to stop, okay? You’re driving me nuts.”

“I can’t help it,” she points out, swirling her brush carefully against her palette. “I have it on loop, if you must know.” Then, brightening, “Do you think that means we can hear—”

It happens in a instant— the image before him dissolving, leaving him staring blankly at the wall, dripping wet and towel still pooled around his waist.

“Clarke?” he tries, his own voice unsteady in the sudden quiet. “You there?”

A minute passes, then two. Nothing.

Biting at his lip, he rises to his feet, twisting at the knob to power it up once more. If he strains his ears, he can just about hear the faint notes to that same _ridiculous_ pop song, drifting through him like a breeze.

 

+

 **From:** Bellamy Blake

 **To:** C.Griffin

 **Subject:** Jiminy Cricket

It’s 844-555-0169.

p.s. hope you like your new phone plan.

p.p.s. please, for the love of god, get yourself a frying pan, at least

 

+

 **From:** C.Griffin

 **To:** Bellamy Blake

 **Subject:** RE: Jiminy Cricket

What in ever-loving fuck would u think that I would appreciate being on VERIZON, considering I’ve been a loyal follower of AT&T all this while? The _audacity_ , I s2g

p.s. I’m swapping back to an AT&T plan, you Verizon crony

p.p.s. no

p.p.p.s I do, however, appreciate the radiator. Thanks.

Clarke Griffin

Freelance Artist

617-555-0139

 

+

 **From:** Bellamy Blake

 **To:** C.Griffin

 **Subject:** Stop.

Look, I know you’re on some sort of art bender right now, but I’m _begging_ you to stop with that song. It’s downright impossible to memorize my flashcards when it’s all I can hear when I CLOSE MY EYES.

 

+

  **From:** C.Griffin

 **To:** Bellamy Blake

 **Subject:** RE: Stop.

 _You_ stop. I don’t know how a living human being can enjoy Jeopardy! so much but I now know that the Pentagon is completed in 1943 and has outer walls over 900 feet long. All these weird, mundane facts have been spinning around in my head all day, like??? Who _cares,_ Bellamy?? At least my song is fun.

Clarke Griffin

Freelance Artist

617-555-0139

 

+

If Bellamy has any doubt that this arrangement is some sort of punishment specifically meant for him— all he has to do is remember that he’s saddled with _Clarke Griffin_ , of all people, and it all comes rushing back to him, really.

“It’s like I said,” he gripes, shoving the paperback into its place on the shelf with a lot more force than necessary. It’s been a few weeks since their chance first meeting, and he’s making use of the time she’s not _casually_ popping by to rant. “Someone peered into my head, did a little poking around, and designed my own personal version of Hell to come torment me.”

“Sure,” Miller says, flat. “Except most of the time, divine retribution doesn’t come in the form of a lab partner that you get paired with during Introductory Biology.”

It’s the easiest (and most plausible) lie Bellamy could think of, under the circumstances, but he still feels a slight twinge of guilt at lying to Miller in the first place anyway. “I’m sure I’ll find something similar in one of Ovid’s works if I look hard enough,” he grouses, shifting at his cart full of books surreptitiously. Stacking is slow-going, today, mostly because it’s all too easy to stop and be grumpy in Miller’s general direction, instead. “Did I tell you what she said, the last time I saw her?”

“Numerous times.”

“She said my shirt was worn-in _,_ and why not just get a new one?” he repeats, in what he considers his best approximation of her voice. “As if money grows off fucking _trees,_ or something. _Jesus_.”

Miller doesn’t even look up from his book at that. “This is the fifth time you’ve brought her up. You know that, right?”

He pauses, one foot still balanced precariously on the step stool before him. “Okay,” he says, exaggeratedly slow, “so?”

“So, normal people don’t _obsess_ over their lab partners they supposedly hate,” he says, mild. “Normal people bitch about what their supposed nemeses did in that allotted period of time they are forced to spend together, whine about the indignity of it all, and then they actually _forget_ about it until the next time.” Shrugging, he adds, “They don’t, for example, know that their nemeses opt to get specialized laundry detergent instead of getting it from the store.”

“It’s not my fault that she divulged that little factoid with me.”

“Sure,” he replies, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “You can’t stand her. It’s why you know what her moon sign is, and if she likes kale, and that she uses short form _way_ too much over text.”

It’s a lot to take in, all at once, and it’s probably the most Miller has ever said about the Clarke subject. Blinking, he opens his mouth, finds himself settling on, “I don’t know if she likes kale.”

“ _That’s_ all you got on after that whole speech?”

“No,” he manages, disgruntled. It’s true that he finds himself taking note of the things that she does, more often than not— but it’s inevitable, considering their circumstances. He knows that she spends money in a way that drives him absolutely fucking crazy _;_ that she’s lived in Boston all her life. He knows that she’s disorganized, and keeps the weirdest hours, and that she’s only ever _really_ calm when she’s painting. At ease.

He closes at his eyes, exhaling gustily. “She pries,” Bellamy says finally, fixing his gaze on the cracked spine of one of the books before him. The thought of it— of her learning his pieces, of her _knowing_ him in his entirety when he’s never even _met_ her— makes his stomach twist painfully. “It’s a lot to get used to, I guess.”

There’s a beat as Miller appears to consider this, his expression thoughtful. Then, solemnly, “You know, the solution to all your problems is to tell your lab partner that you want to engage in some biology lessons with her one-on-one, right? Preferably, in bed, or whatever it is you—”

He doesn’t even feel bad about dropping the entire set of encyclopedias on his head.

 

+

In the coming weeks, she learns way more about Bellamy Blake than she intends to.

He’s definitely not the most popular guy on campus, for one, but he has a circle of friends whom seem to truly, _genuinely_ adore him. She finds herself taking note of them, despite herself: Miller, surlier than most, but always there to provide terrible, inept advice before offering him a beer. Monty, all dry wit and sincerity, who lets him copy off his chem tutorials, and Jasper who sees to idolize him beyond anything.

(It’s enough to make her feel a little envious, considering that she’s only ever had Wells or Raven, but she tries not to dwell too much on it.)

He’s neater than natural, evidently, and grumpy in a way that drives her absolutely fucking crazy _._ His idea of fun, she realizes, after unintentionally popping in on him over the weekend— is listening to NPR. Everything on NPR, if she’s being exact, including a trivia show that stays stuck in her (their?) head for _days._ He refuses to engage with anything social media related, probably out of spite, and she once catches him looking up archaic Latin for _fun._

It’s annoying, as much as it is a invasion of privacy. It doesn’t help that he’s stubborn, too, which often leads to long, drawn-out arguments that end with both of them pissed and ignoring each other until _someone_ relents.

Thankfully, there hasn’t been any of the full-on body switching incidents since, considering she’s seriously doubting her ability to pull off a convincing Bellamy now. They tend to end up popping by in each other’s heads more frequently than not, instead, which feels like a lot more of a manageable experience.

It’s how she finds herself in a bar in _Virginia_ , of all places, on a Friday night— a little tipsy and chatting up a really pretty girl.

“Wow,” she muses, once she’s fully gotten over the shock of him actually actively _enjoying_ himself outside of his usual haunts (his dorm room, the library _and_ the fountain over by the engineering block, the one with the statue of Daedalus). “Look at you, hotshot,” she says, teasing. “And here I thought you had no idea how to party.”

That earns her a eye-roll on his part, her view of the bar shifting as he ducks underneath it. “I don’t think working counts as _partying,_ Princess.”

“Still,” she points out, grinning. “You were flirting, which means you’re in incrementally of a better mood than how you usually feel ninety percent of the time. Did you get her number?”

A beat as he rummages through the cupboard, pushing past boxes of straws and frilly umbrellas to grab at some limes. “No,” he admits, huffing. “I just— I was flirting for the _tips,_ okay? Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“Uh, no one flirts with someone who looks like that just for the tips, you liar.”

He grumbles out something half-heartedly that sounds like, _I do,_ but it’s unconvincing all the same anyway. “What are you up to?” he counters, getting to his feet. “Still working on that piece for the hospital?”

“Yeah, as you can see.” She shrugs, gesturing over to the canvas before her. “It’s, uh. A work in progress.”

She doesn’t know how she can tell, exactly, but she’s pretty sure he’s squinting at it. “Why is the boy _blue_?”

“He’s the sky,” she says primly, spinning on her heel so he’s relegated to a view of her kitchen instead. “It’s abstract. I don’t expect you to get it.”

“I feel like I should be offended, somehow.”

“I’ve seen what passes for art in your room, Bellamy.” She reminds him, trudging over to the counter to grab at the lone apple she has left over from Raven’s ironic fruit basket. “You have a poster of Batman over your bureau.”

He makes a offended noise, which luckily, is drowned out by the people crowding over the bar. “What’s wrong with Batman?”

“Nothing much, I guess, except it’s Batman and you’re using him to change the topic,” she says, frowning. “C’mon. You totally wanna go out with her.”

“No,” he says tersely, slamming down a drink onto the bar, “I don’t.”

“I think you’re forgetting the part where we have this weird telepathic bond thing going for us, and I kind of know when you’re feeling particularly annoyed or lonely _or_ when you have a particular itch you want scratched,” she says, nonchalant. It makes him choke on his own breath, which is what she’s going for, really. “It’s been a while, right? I say go for it.”

He gives a low swear at that, barking out some sort of instruction to Murphy before marching to the backroom. “What,” he says, venomous, “you bored up there in your high tower, Princess? Need to live vicariously through mine while you go through your quarter life crisis?”

It’s not entirely surprising that he’ll be on the defensive, considering the simmering irritation she’s been feeling on his part ever since she brought the matter up— but it still stings, somehow. “ _My_ life is none of your business,” she snaps, scrubbing at her face. “You don’t get to have a fucking opinion on it.”

“Kind of is, considering our situation.” He says, snide. “This works two ways, your Highness. You don’t want me involved in your life? Then get the _hell_ out of mine.”

Tears spring to her eyes; the motion reflexive, and she bats them away before he can realize. “God,” she laughs, curling her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “You’re _such_ a dick.”

“That, I am,” he says, grim. Then, sardonically, “It’s probably what landed me in this situation in the first place, isn’t it?”

She makes sure to flip him off before striding off, hitting at her keypad to bring up the most embarrassing song in her repertoire— Cotton Eye Joe— up on her laptop, blasting it loud enough for the windows to rattle.

Distantly, she thinks she makes out the sound of a muffled swear, boyish and rough, before she’s turning up the music once more, bringing it to top volume. _Good._

 

+

He didn’t think it was possible for someone who shares the same headspace as him to be able to actively _avoid_ him, but here they are.

To be fair, it’s not like he’s being all that forthcoming either. The last few times he’s popped into her consciousness, he’s opted to stay quiet— with her refusing to acknowledge him, too, going on about with her day with an almost exaggerated kind of calm. Sometimes, he catches her when she’s painting, and it often leads to a painful interlude where she’d do nothing but stare at a wall until he blinks out.

It’s getting stupidly awkward but it’s not like he knows what to say to make it better either. Apologizing would be a good start, probably, but saying it out loud feels like a impossible task, somehow.

(He’s never been good at it. Apologies, that is. Actions speak a lot louder than words, when it comes to him, but it’s not like he can do anything for a girl who he’s still not entirely convinced he didn’t make up in his head.)

Still, it’s been two whole weeks, and he’s brooding over sending her a long, terribly worded text (all whilst stirring at his pot of pasta, because he’s nothing if not efficient) and getting it over with when he feels it— a familiar tug— before he’s staring down at a busted tyre; cars zipping past him and the roar of engines deafening.

“Jesus,” he swears, before he can help himself. “The fuck— Clarke, are you on the _highway_?”

She sniffs, the sound barely audible in the wind before she’s turning away pointedly, casting her gaze out to the cars streaming past instead. Her vision is blurry, catching on the fractures of light bouncing off the passing windows, and the sight of it is blinding against his own eyelids.

It dawns on him, then, that she’s _crying,_ which only serves to make him feel infinitely worse.

“Right,” he exhales, rubbing a palm over his face. “Look, I know we’re doing that thing where we’re not acknowledging each other, but I just— can you tell me you’re okay, at least?”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, but he thinks he hears her scoff, dropping her gaze down to the ground.

 _Fuck._ Sighing, he lets his head fall forward, resting against the cool surface of the cabinet. “You’re pissed at me,” he starts, closing his eyes. “And I get that. I’m— I shouldn’t have said that shit to you, okay? Not like that. I messed up, and I’m sorry.” Pausing, he forces another breath, willing his voice to stay even. “But you’re standing by the side of a highway, and there’s so many fucking cars, and I just need to know you’re alright, okay? Princess?”

Another minute of frosty, implacable silence before she finally cracks, her voice defiant when she tells him, “Don’t call me that.”

The relief that rushes through him makes his knees go a little weak, honestly. “Got it, your Highness.” He grins, lifting his head. She’s turned around now, facing the guardrail, and from his viewpoint, it looks as if she’s seated _._ Which is kind of a terrifying thought, even though he hazards that she’s safely shielded by her car. “What happened?”

“I got a flat,” she announces, deadpan. “And there’s a spare in my trunk, but,” she pauses, her breaths coming short as a rueful laugh escapes, “I’ve no _fucking_ idea what to do with it. My dad— he always used to tell me that he’ll teach me, but he’s _dead_ and I’m _broke_ and my mom is, honestly, the _worst,_ and—”

It delves into full-on crying, at this point, interspersed with the occasional hiccup, and he almost wishes that he was there with her. It would be easier, he can’t help but think, to give her the kind of comfort he’s accustomed to giving. A hand to her shoulder, a squeeze of her fingers. He’s always been tactile, has always conveyed meaning better with touch. A pat to the knee meant _I got this._ Linked fingers was _hold on to me._

“Hey,” he manages, gentling his tone. “ _Hey,_ Princess. It’s— I’m here, okay? Let me help you. You’re going to be fine.”

She wipes at her nose, snorting. “You mean sneer at me, more like.”

He swallows, regret catching at his throat and twisting his stomach. “Yeah, well. I’m not sure if you noticed, but I’m kind of a judgmental asshole, Clarke.”

“... At least you’re self-aware.”

This time, it’s his turn to snort. “Yeah,” he says, rucking his fingers through his hair. “At least there’s that. But at any rate, I didn’t— I don’t mean it. Not really.”

“You don’t have to explain your distrust of authority and the privileged to me, Bellamy.” She says, weary. “I get it. And I _am_ privileged, I know that. I’m just— we’re in each other’s heads _constantly,_ and I’m tired of fighting.”

There’s a lump in his throat that’s making it hard to speak, but he pushes through anyway. “I know. That’s why— God. Let me help you with this, okay?”

She sighs, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “Only if you agree to stop picking fights with me, Blake.”

There’s a teasing note to her voice now, though, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Only if you stop baiting me.”

“I’ll try, but no promises.”

“That’s all we can hope for,” he retorts, resting his hip back against the edge of the counter. “Go grab your spare. I’ll walk you through it.”

“I have the gist of it, mostly,” she says, frowning as she lifts at the boot, retrieving her jack and setting the spare out and rolling it into place. “Raven mentioned it to me, when I told her about my mom calling a tow truck the last time we had one.”

He can feel his brow rising up to his hairline at it, skeptical. “Your mom called a tow truck for a _flat_?”

She grunts, positioning the jack carefully. “That’s the kind of person she is, I suppose.”

“Sounds like a delight.”

“Oh, you’ll love her,” she says dryly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Then, apprehensively, “I’m supposed to raise it now, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. Her hands are pale, nails painted a bright, electric blue this time, and he’s a little mesmerized by the contrast in the colors, somehow. “Your— predicament. That has to do with your mom, right?”

A beat, her fingers now poised over the hubcap. “Yeah,” she says tightly, looking away. “She— cut me off, I guess. After my dad died, I sort of realized med school wasn’t for me, so I dropped out. Let’s just say she didn’t take it so well, and home isn’t really a option for me, now.”

“Oh.” He blinks, a little startled by the sudden rush of protectiveness he feels for her— this girl that he barely knows, someone whom he’s suddenly and inextricably intertwined with. “Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but,” he clears his throat, shrugging. “That’s a dick move, if I’ve ever seen one.”

The delighted laugh she gives in response fills him with warmth, somehow, sudden and sweet. “It’s a _total_ dick move.”

“Oh, yeah. A eight on the scale, at least.” He says, before directing his attention back on her. She’s loosening at the nuts of the tyre now, which is good progress. “Keep going, you’re doing good. Remember, counter clockwise.”

She makes a small sound of acknowledgement. “Doing better than your cooking, at least.”

He drops his gaze back down to the pasta, cursing at the sight of the blackened bits, already crusting to the bottom of his pot. “Damn.” Then, wryly, “Look what you made me do, Griffin.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, sounding distinctly pleased with herself. “My bad.”

 

+

It’s almost routine for them to drop in on each other, after that.

She’s up later than he is, most of the time, so it’s not uncommon for her to wake up to the rasp of his voice, amused and sardonic but fond, too. Some days, he’s still in class when it happens, and on others, he’s in the line for Starbucks or making his own. She’ll let him grumble about his day while she scurries up breakfast, and he lets her despair about her current living situation all while chugging back cups and cups of gross, dark coffee.

There’s no rhyme or reason as to how long the connection holds, but she finds herself having some semblance of control over it, eventually. It’s… easy, even. A matter of feeling out the thread between them; a matter of holding on. (He picks up on it a lot quicker than she does, which means a whole lot of _gloating_ on his part.)

She introduces the merits of Spotify to him, and he gets her hooked on episodes of The Office. One time, she even persuades him to get on Snapchat for a few hours, which of course he _hates_ — though he’s not all that opposed to when she shows him how to work the dog filter. He gets her to buy laundry bags, and a fresh sheets, and extra hangers, which she’ll grudgingly admit have been pretty useful.

Granted, a lot of the time, it’s like having some sort of weird, fucked up guardian angel constantly hovering about, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s pretty inconsequential. Other people have creepy relatives that won’t stop making intrusive comments on their life choices, right? The universe just gave her Bellamy, instead.

(It probably helps that they’re getting along a lot better, these days, but Clarke’s just… not going to think about that, for now.)

 She’s picking up groceries the next time she senses him, his disapproval radiating down their bond and forcing her to a stop right by the frozen food aisle.

 “What?” she huffs, grabbing at a bag of microwavable tater tots defiantly. “Actually, you know what? No. Don’t say anything to that, I don’t want to hear it.”

 "I wasn’t planning on it, Princess.”

 “A likely story,” she mutters, blowing a loose lock of hair away from her face. She’s been caught up with a piece for the hospital, and it’s the first time in days since she’s emerged from the loft. “You even _think_ about saying anything, and I’m cutting the cord.”

 “Now that’s just rude.”

 “It’s called self-preservation.”

 “That’s what I’m trying to achieve here when I tell you not to get the tots, Clarke.”

 She can’t quite hold back her laugh, at that, which earns her several side-eyes before she thinks of retrieving her phone from her purse, perching it against her shoulder.

 “Great,” she says, turning back towards the selection before her. “Now everyone thinks I’m nuts.”

 He sighs, the noise exaggerated and drawn-out. “You say that, as you load cartons and cartons of bruschetta into your cart.”

 “What’s wrong with bruschetta?”

 “Nothing, except that you can make it yourself with half the cost,” he points out, and she glimpses the movement of his arms as he folds them across his chest. “It’s also a lot better tasting, but that’s just me.”

  _Typical._ She rolls her eyes, pretending to inspect at a packet of waffle fries. “I hate to break it to you, Bellamy, but not all of us possess unique culinary abilities.”

 “You call slicing a tomato a unique culinary skill?” he asks, disbelieving. “Wow. You’re in way worse shape than I thought.”

 “This is coming from the person who thought Bose was the name of a new car company.”

 She can practically feel his cheeks coloring, which is _new_ and also a vaguely terrifying. “You heard that?”

 “I could sense Miller’s exasperation from all the way over here,” she says, nonchalant, and is rewarded by a series of low, almost indecipherable curses. “Anyway,” she interrupts, shaking at her head. “You have no right to be criticizing me, Bellamy Blake. You technophobe _._ ”

 “Being a technophobe doesn’t negatively affect my health,” he replies, sounding almost prim. “Besides, I can teach you.”

 She pauses, fingers still half-poised over a box of fish and chips. “As in… now?”

 He shrugs, the motion making her view of his room (and the stack of half-graded papers before him) spin. “Why not?”

 “Uh, the connection could cut out just as we’re at a essential step.”

 “I have a pretty good grasp of it,” he reminds her, matter-of-fact. “And we have each other’s numbers.”

She opens her mouth to say something to that, retort already forming on her lips when he cuts in, sounding extraordinarily smug. “Unless, you know. You’re _scared_.”

 It’s enough to make her bristle, if anything. “Oh, you’re on.” She tells him, cracking at her knuckles. It gets him to laugh, at least, bright and sudden, and she has to bite at the inside of her cheek to keep from beaming in response.

 “Okay, Princess. Start with about six ripe tomatoes.”

 “ _Six?_ ”

 “I know what I’m about.”

 He turns it into a game, somehow— getting her to dart right in front of someone to snag the last bag of basil leaves, and to break into a run all while steering her cart (“Can you— Princess, you’re breaking up. I think— wow, you’re going to have to _run,_ before you drop out of range—”) and she’s practically breathless with laughter by the time she pulls up back at her apartment, bags of groceries digging into her wrists as she wrestles with her keys.

 “You still there?” she asks, dumping her purse and various bags onto the counter. It’s a bit of a moot question, considering she can still make him out in her peripheral vision; twirling at a pen between his fingers, occasionally pausing to chew at the nib.

 “Yeah,” he says, laughing. “Just trying to catch my breath after watching you clear six flights of stairs.”

 “Oh, c’mon.”

 “I’m serious!” he exclaims, the words garbled before he yanks the pen from his teeth. “Can you imagine what I was going through, looking through your eyes hurtling up those stairs? I’m nauseous thinking about it again.”

 She makes a sympathetic noise, grinning as she sets to unloading her buys. “Aw. You’re such a baby.”

 “Yeah, but one who's going to teach you how to make the most amazing bruschetta,” he says, without missing a beat. “Okay, you got your tomatoes right there, so first step: blanch and peel them.”

 “Blanch them,” she echoes, brow rising. “A what, now?”

 It’s worth it, really, just to hear the strangled noise he makes. “Okay, never mind that,” he instructs, standing up. From what she can tell, he must be pacing the length of his room. “Start by making shallow cuts at the ends of your tomatoes. Grab your knife— no, not that one— yeah, okay. Gentle, Clarke. Watch your fingers.”

 Carefully, she draws the blade across its skin, smiling when he gives a satisfied hum at it. “So, how did you get so good at this?”

 "Huh?”

 She didn’t mean to say it out loud, or to ask him anything all that much _personal,_ really (it makes everything they’re going through now feel… more permanent, somehow) but it slips out before she can help herself.

 (And deep down, she knows, beyond anything, that she’s _curious_. That she wants to know more about him, more than she lets on.)

 “Cooking,” Clarke prompts, starting in on the next batch of tomatoes. “Self-taught, or was it like a family activity sort of thing?”

 A beat, and she thinks she hears the smile in his voice when he tells her, “A little bit of both, actually. I have a sister, and growing up, I, uh— I took care of her, mostly. It was either learn how to cook, or subsist on take-out all the time, and we didn’t have the money for it.”

 It’s in line with everything she knows about him so far, and she finds herself nodding before she remembers that he can’t see it. “Yeah? What is she like?”

 “A whole lot of trouble, that’s what.” He deadpans, making her snort, and just like _that_ , she’s opening up about her dad, and Wells, and all the small, infinite pieces that make up who she is. There’s a little hesitation on his part, but he reciprocates too, telling her about his sister and his dissertation and his hometown— effortless and _easy_ in a way that she doesn’t even realize how hoarse she is by the time he instructs her to pull the bread out of the toaster, perfectly brown and smelling of butter.

 “Satisfying, right?” he asks when she bites into the slice, nearly swooning at how _good_ it is. “Told you, Princess.”

 “Yeah, yeah,” she grins, lifting herself up onto the counter and letting her legs dangle from her perch. It occurs to her that like this, he can see her from the mirror across, and she thinks she hears his breath catching just a fraction as his gaze lands on her.

For some reason, the thought of it makes her blush. “Don’t be getting a big head now, Blake.” She manages, picking at a chunk of cheese and pegging it over at the mirror so he can’t see her smile.

 He yelps, ducking instinctively, and she cracks up; the sound of their combined laughter bouncing off the walls and filling her with light.

 

+

She brings it up just as he’s cueing up the next episode of The Office— his view of _starry night_ shifting as she sits up.

“You know,” Clarke says, sudden. “I don’t even know how you look like.”

It’s distinctly nonchalant, but her knows her well enough to know that it’s something she’s been working up the courage to ask, really. He hears it in the slight crack of her voice; the lilt to her words.

“I think you’re forgetting the part where you woke up in my body, once.” He reminds her, reaching over to hit pause at the screen. It jerks to a halt mid-credits, and she makes a small noise of protest in response. “Unless you’re saying you _didn’t_ use the opportunity to check me out,” he continues, with the arch of his brow, “and if you didn’t, then I’ll have to say I’m a little affronted, Princess.”

That gets her to laugh, at least, easing the tension in her form. “Please,” she snorts, flapping her hand dismissively. “You’re blind as a bat without glasses, okay? I barely saw anything before I put on a shirt. I was also actively trying to block out everything about that day, especially the whole peeing standing up part.”

He shouldn’t be surprised that she’s _seen_ his dick, but the thought of it still makes him flush hot anyway. _Jesus._ “Yeah, yeah,” he says, gruff. “It’s not like I got a good look at you either. I was busy trying to put your life together, remember?”

“You didn’t even shower _,_ ” she points out, accusatory. “I woke up and my hair was all greasy. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Uh, are you saying you’d rather I see you naked?”

“I wouldn’t have cared,” she shrugs, and he has to take a minute to banish the mental image of seeing Clarke naked and wet out of his brain. “So, yeah. I don’t— I’ve never gotten a proper look at you.” Then, a little defensively, “So I’m curious, sue me.”

“Mm, out of the fifteen dollars in your bank account?”

She gives a exasperated huff, tossing one of her pillows clean across the room. It lands somewhere in the vicinity of a pile of canvases, and he barely manages to suppress a laugh at the annoyance simmering down the connection.

“Oh yeah, you really made that one hurt,” he says, solemn. It’s strange, how we can practically _feel_ her winding up for a counter punch, but at this point he’s not sure if it’s from the bond or if it’s just because he knows her. “Alright, alright,” Bellamy sighs, getting to his feet. “Hold your horses, I’m getting a mirror.”

A beat as she seems to take that in, her surprise evident. “Really?”

“Well, I’m walking to the bathroom, so. Get a move on.”

“Hey, at no point did I say that _I_ had to reciprocate.”

“Fair’s fair, Princess,” he points out, coming to a stop before the bathroom door. “If you want to see me, I get to see you too.”

She makes a impatient noise at that. “Fine,” Clarke mutters, stumbling to her feet. “You know, except in my case, if you had wanted to _see_ me, you could have just looked me up on Facebook _._ Like a normal person.”

 _I have,_ he nearly says, barely managing to catch himself in time. It feels like a admission to something— one that he’s not entirely ready to deal with. “Yeah, too bad I’m a technophobe,” he says instead. She’s at the door of her bathroom as well, and irrationally, he finds himself getting _nervous_ , of all things. “Ready?”

“... You better not have your dick out.”

“Cute.”

He flicks the lights on, and— there she is.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen her before, but it still hits him like a punch to the gut. There’s the same blonde hair and blue eyes and paint-stained fingers that he’s seen in pictures— but it’s _different_ , seeing it all together. She has a beauty mark, right by her upper lip, and she tilts at her chin when she begins to smile, shaking at her head. “Wow.”

“Hi,” he manages, mouth dry. It’s impossible to keep from smiling back when she’s looking at him like that _,_ so he doesn’t try to stop himself. “You’re— this is— different.”

Her laugh is bright, nose scrunching in a way that he’s imagined a thousand times before. It’s downright surreal, really, and he has to fight the urge to close his eyes and commit it to memory. “You have freckles,” she says, delighted. “I never noticed before.”

“How did you even manage to _miss_ it?”

“You have terrible vision,” she says absently, lifting her hand up to the mirror. Tracing the line of his jaw, sliding down to his neck. It’s not real, he _knows_ it isn’t— but goosebumps erupt on his skin all the same, anyway. “You know what my dad used to call them, back when I was a kid?”

“Uh, worrying?”

She rolls her eyes, and it’s a effort not to stare, at this point. “Skin stars,” she says, wistful. “There was a boy in my neighbourhood, and he had so _many_ of them. I was really jealous. I thought it meant that he was cosmic.”

He can’t help it, he snorts. “My mom just thought it meant that I had to go for regular checkups every time it looked as if one of them had, like, morphed _._ It was an overreaction about eighty percent of the time.”

“You’re sucking all the romanticism out of it, Bellamy.”

“It’s what I do best,” he says, dry. A part of him is aware that he’s still looking at her— that he can’t look away, and that she must notice by now— but it’s impossible to do anything about it. Maybe it’s the same for her, too; both of them circling each other like stars trying to find a way to collide, somehow. “So,” he tries, clearing at his throat. “Do I live up to your expectations, Princess?”

She doesn’t say anything to do that. Not right away, at least, her gaze still pinned to the jut of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone. “Sure,” she says finally, smiling crookedly over at him. It’s the kind of answer that sounds like she meant to say something else, but he doesn’t push. Not now. “You?”

“Yeah,” he manages, swallowing hard. Wonders if she hears it in his voice, too. “I feel the same way.”

 

+

It doesn’t strike her as odd when she wakes up to the sound of dead silence on his end that morning. Bellamy appreciated his privacy as much as anyone, and sometimes he liked to get up early to go to the gym. She liked to use the time to paint in silence, more than anything, or watch Say Yes to the Dress without feeling his pervading sense of belligerent _boredom_ by her ear.

Still, she starts to worry by the time the silence stretches out to mid-afternoon.

It’s the longest they had ever gone without popping into each other’s heads, and if she’s being entirely honest, she _misses_ him. Calling or texting would be the most logical solution, but the prospect of waiting for him to pick up or text back makes her feel stupidly antsy, somehow.

In the end, she settles for reaching for the thread between them, giving it a sharp, impatient tug. That’s all it’s supposed to be— a way of reminding him that she’s here; that she wants to see him— but she finds the world dissolving before she can help herself, her view shifting to his.

The first thing she sees is him _,_ strangely enough. It dawns on her, then, that he’s directly across from a mirror; sweaty and dishevelled and clearly _pissed,_ the punching bag before him swaying as his fist slams up against its side once more.

He hasn’t even noticed her, which is a first; gaze intent on the bag swinging before them. Still, she doesn’t miss the flash of bronzed, glistening skin as he lifts at his shirt to wipe at his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes. It’s enough for her to go warm, biting at her lip to keep from making a seriously embarrassing noise.

Of course, that’s about when he notices her, his arms falling back to his sides. “Clarke?”

She blinks, wetting at her lips surreptitiously. “Yeah,” she manages, shaking her head so as to clear it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean but to interrupt, but it’s been quiet on your end, and I just…”

“Right,” he nods, the muscle in his jaw working before he looks away, focusing on the line of empty treadmills instead. “I didn’t mean— sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“Yeah, I do.” He says, giving a sharp bark of laughter. “If the situation had been reversed, I probably would have started driving down to Boston right there and then.”

She has to bite at the inside of her cheek to taper a smile. “Drama queen.”

“So I’m told,” he says wryly, easing down onto the ground before snapping at the lid of his water bottle. “It’s, uh— been kind of a terrible day. I didn’t want to be around anyone, if that makes sense.”

Shifting in her seat, she gets comfortable, wrapping her favorite afghan around her shoulders. “Wanna talk about it?”

A short, rueful laugh. “Not much to say,” he huffs out, fiddling with the bottle cap. “It’s my sister. She just— upped and left, I guess you could say. Quit her job, put her apartment back on sale. I only found out when one of her colleagues called me to catch me up to speed. The studio isn’t doing so well, now that she’s gone.”

“Shit,” she breathes. “Is that— have you called the cops? Or—”

“She texted me to tell me she’s fine,” he interrupts, rubbing at his face. “That she just needed a breather, whatever that means. And it’s fine, I guess, she’s an adult. She can take care of herself. But she refuses to tell me where she is, or what led to this, and what this means for the studio, and…” he trails off, clearly lost in thought. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I’m just pissed and stressed and annoyed about all of it, I guess.”

It’s irrational to be mad at someone she doesn’t even _know_ , really, but the thought of Bellamy sitting around, worried out of his mind and powerless to do anything about it sends a fresh wave of fury rising up her throat. Taking a deep breath, she composes herself, wishing she could be there, instead. It’s not like there’s much she can do, but she could hold his hand through this, maybe. Comfort him. “God, I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry, Bell.”

It’s a slip of a tongue, but he straightens at it anyway, and it’s impossible to miss how _pleased_ he feels by it; smile barely concealed as he ducks at his head . “It’s not as much of a big deal as I’m making it out to be, probably,” he says, gruff, capping at the the bottle deftly. “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

“Yeah, but still,” she says, tempering her voice to be cautious. Careful. “It’s a little selfish.”

For a second, it looks as if he might argue with that, but then he slumps back, all the fight going out of him. “Yeah,” he mumbles, closing at his eyes. “It is.”

“We don’t choose the people we love,” she tells him, soft. “But we can choose how we do. You have such a big heart, Bellamy. And sometimes, it feels like people take advantage of that. I just— I don’t know. You deserve someone who would do anything for you. Someone who would take the stars down from the sky for you, if you wanted. Someone who loves you the way you love them.”

A beat— long enough for her to start worrying before he says, teasing, “Anyone in mind for that?”

She groans, dropping her flushed cheeks into her hands. It’s not like there are any mirrors close by, but it’s better to be safe anyway. “You’ll be the first to know,” she mumbles, the jolt of affection suddenly coursing down the bond warming her down to her toes.

 

+

Look, logically, Bellamy _knows_ that Clarke goes on dates, okay? He knows that she’s not opposed to the occasional hookup, and that she’s on Tinder, and that she’s actively putting herself out there after her last disastrous breakup (her words, not his).

He knows all of this, he _does_ , so— it really doesn’t explain why he’s feeling the way he is when he accidentally drops in on her while she’s on a date.

Which is, incidentally, _jealous._

“Wow,” he snorts, once her date has ducked out of sight and towards the bathroom. “So, I don’t know how much you know about this guy, but his hair says that he was in a boyband during the whole nineties resurgence.”

“Shut up,” she says from the corner of her mouth, but he thinks he catches her smile from the set of gilded mirrors across. “Maya set this up, and I don’t want her to think that I didn’t try at all.”

“You showed up,” he points out, tart. “That’s trying in my dictionary.”

She gives an absentminded hum in response, sliding her finger along the rim of her plate. There are the remains of some sort of beef entree on it— a recommendation on Boyband’s part— which he knows for a fact that she hates _._ The thought of it gives him a sense of smug satisfaction, somehow.

“It would be, in _your_ dictionary,” she counters, not entirely without heat. It doesn’t piss him off like it should, though, which is probably a sign that he’s a little too gone for her. “But honestly, I’m not having that much of a bad time. He’s a little weird on the whole soulmates thing, but it’s expected.”

He can practically _feel_ his breath rushing out of his lungs at that. “You— you have one?”

“Huh?”

“A soul mark,” he says, swallowing hard. There’s some sort of unfathomable weight pressing down on his chest, and it’s making it hard to say anything at all. “Or whatever new fangled term the kids are calling it, these days. I don’t know.”

She pauses, tilting at her chin quizzically. “Yeah,” she says, slow. “But so do you, right?”

“I mean, yeah,” he frowns, sifting through the memories of everything he’s ever told her, searching for that one instance—

“You never told me,” she interjects, sounding a little guilty. “I didn’t— uhm. I found the registration card in your wallet, the one time I was in your body.”

“Oh.”

“You never filled it out.”

It’s hard to keep still when she’s looking at him like that; all soft, hopeful curiosity, so he gets to his feet and settles for pacing the length of his room instead. “Yeah,” he admits, running a palm over his face. “Octavia, she, uh. Kept bugging me to get registered, you know, to see if the system would have my match. But I couldn’t do it. I just kept thinking of all those statistics, of those cases that never worked out. Like my mom, and how she married Octavia’s dad, and how he treated her like crap all the same anyway, and it just— I don’t know. I just couldn’t.”

“Yeah,” she says, flashing him that small, crooked smile once more. (It’s his favorite look on her, he thinks. That, and when she laughs.) “My dad gave me that little talk once my soul mark appeared, like. Having an ideal match for you out there doesn’t mean they’re not a total asshole, whoever they are.”

He shakes at his head, releasing a drawn-out groan as he flops back down onto his bed. “Well, he should have told my excitable sixteen year old sister that.”

“Like she would have listened,” Clarke deadpans, and it’s enough to get him to relax, really, despite the pit of anxiety growing in his stomach.

“You know, you have a startlingly accurate assessment of O despite never having met her,” he muses, tilting his head back up to the ceiling. “Should I be worried?”

It’s her turn to laugh, this time, and she barely manages to duck her head in time before she catches a few stares. “It’s not my fault you decided to spill your entire life story the one time you got drunk on vodka red bulls,” she says, furrowing her brow as if in mock-contemplation, “though I _might_ have gotten curious and looked her up on Facebook to fill in the gaps, once or twice. You know, like normal people do.”

“You’re the one stalking someone online, and _I’m_ the abnormal one?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable,” he grins, letting his head thump back against his pillow. “It’s like you don’t trust _my_ version of the Blakes’ tragic life story.”

He meant it as a joke, more than anything, but she goes quiet anyway. “It’s not,” she says finally, gaze darting up to the mirror so he can look at her; at the seriousness in her expression. “I mean, sure, fucking shitty things have happened, but. It’s not going to shape the rest of your life, Bell. It won’t.”

(No one has ever said something like that to him before— has ever assured him that he wasn’t just the mistakes he had made, or the tragedies he had lived through. It feels foreign against his teeth, alien and welcoming, all at once. Maybe it’s what salvation feels like.)

“I don’t know,” he manages, working to keep his tone light. “I would say that tragedy is a pretty concurrent theme in my life, so.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to let it,” she says, so fierce that it makes him laugh, just for a split second. “Don’t _laugh_ at me, you asshole, I mean it. If you’re not going to fight for the happiness you deserve, I will, okay?” Then, her voice unwavering, “I’ll give that to you. The best way I can.”

His eyes are stinging, at this point, but he manages to speak past the lump in his throat anyway. “Okay, Princess,” he says, blinking away the moisture gathering against his lids, “I believe you.”

“Good.”

“Good.” He echoes, forcing himself to take a deep, even breath. “Anyway, I should go. Boyband is probably going to be back any minute now.”

She blinks, as if finally remembering where she is. “Oh,” she says, looking a little discomfited. “Right.”

“Yeah,” he says, tamping down the urge to reach for her, to try and take her hand. “But hey, for the record? I think you could do a lot better.”

That pulls a snort out of her, the tension easing from her shoulders. “You picked up on all of this from his _hair_ and five seconds of interaction?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, loosening his grip on the thread slightly. “Call it gut instinct, okay?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile playing on her lips. “Sure.”

“You look out for my happiness, and I look out for yours,” he tells her, quiet, and for a split second, it feels like she’s looking _right_ at him, despite the impossibility of the situation. “Have a good date, Princess.”

He’s pretty sure she means to say something to that, but the moment unravels first— leaving him alone in his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling.

 

+

It comes to absolutely no one’s surprise that she never makes that second date with Sterling.

“I figured, after you texted me complaining about his hair for the umpteenth time.” Maya points out, wry. They’re doing inventory while the store is relatively quiet, which is mid-afternoon on a Tuesday— and it’s been mostly nothing but discovering that someone has been pinching chunks of crayons out of a box of Crayola. “I have to say, I didn’t realize it was such a deal-breaker for you.”

It’s an effort to keep from snorting, but she tries her best anyway. “It’s not,” she admits, wiping at her palms against her store-issued apron. “I mean, yeah, it was flopping around the entire time we talked, but I think it had more to do with how we had nothing to talk about.”

“At all?”

“Kind of,” she hedges, shrugging. (It’s a lot more of an effort to explain that she’d rather listen to Bellamy talk about _dry-wall_ rather than spend another minute with Sterling, and Clarke’s just not in the mood to get into the whole telepathic bond spiel.) “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t feeling it.”

Maya makes a agreeable noise at that. “You’re saying that it was a incompatibility thing?”

“Yeah,” she says absently, reaching for her phone stashed in the front-pocket of her apron. Still no messages, but there’s ten whole minutes until Bellamy gets out of his meeting with his academic advisor anyway. She’ll hear from him eventually, or maybe she can—

“So,” Maya says, nonchalant, “it has everything to do with incompatibility and nothing to do with the fact that you’re smiling all goofily down at your phone now, right?”

It takes a second for the words to sink in, but she knows that the heat that rushes up her cheeks is unmistakable. “Huh?”

“Seriously, Clarke. You’ve taken your phone out five times in the past fifteen minutes.”

“I’m— Lincoln said there was going to be a new shipment of oil paints coming in, okay?” she tries, wincing. “I was just checking to see what time.”

The look on Maya’s face is distinctly exasperated. “That’s on Thursday.”

“... Oh.”

There’s a beat as Maya regards her, brows raised, before she relents, shaking at her head. “Just— go ahead,” she grins, turning on her heel. “I can finish up here, and you’re no use to me when you’re all distracted.”

She’s tempted to argue, but it’s true, at any rate. “I owe you,” Clarke says instead, reaching over to squeeze at her shoulders just as she feels a familiar tug, her phone buzzing once in her pocket. “Seriously. Coffee on me tomorrow, okay?”

“ _Bye,_ babe.”

She manages one last quick smile before she’s pushing past the door and into the back room, her vision shifting to the familiar line of shelves and books that she’s come to associate with Bellamy’s workplace. “Hey there,” she grins, catching sight of his mussed hair in the small mirror taped to the inside of his locker. (It’s impossible to make out much, considering how inconveniently tiny the mirror is, but she glimpses hints of his bare arm and freckled chest, which means he’s changing into his work uniform. It used to be a lot more distracting than it is now.) “How did it go?”

He looks up at her, still struggling with the buttons of his shirt. “Good, I think? Pike had some pretty constructive feedback for me, which means another round of edits. I can’t complain, though. There were some really good points.”

“But he liked it?” she prompts, with the pointed arch of her brow.

He ducks at his head, clearly biting back a grin. “He did,” he says finally, glancing back up; cheeks pink with the goofiest, _widest_ smile on his face. “It’s, uh. Pretty nice, if I’m being entirely honest.” The expression quickly flitters away though, a small frown overtaking. “Hey, stop moving. I can’t see you if you keep pacing.”

She pauses, swivelling on her heel and spotting the mirror across. The frame is hand-painted, all flowers and vines and ivy— Lincoln’s work. “Oh. I didn’t even realise that was there.”

“Where are you?”

“Back room,” she says, retrieving her phone and tapping at the flashlight to illuminate the space before her. It’s littered with old canvases, frames— everything that she and Lincoln had stashed from their numerous projects and pieces years back. “It’s kind of a morgue, if I’m being entirely honest. Ghost of unfinished artworks past.”

That pulls a low, rueful whistle out of him. “That’s a lot of stuff you guys didn’t get to finishing.”

“I finished _some_ of them,” she notes, shifting her gaze over to the row of canvases to the side. “It’s just that they weren’t any good.”

“Somehow, I find that a little difficult to believe.”

She snorts, reaching forward to graze at the edge of one of the canvases. Hers, if the familiar constellation of night sky and clouds wrapped around the silhouette of a boy is any indication. “I’m not bringing up the whole Batman thing again.”

“Everything is art, Clarke.” He says primly, relaxing against the side of his locker. “This one is yours, right?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “One of my earliest. Boy at creek, or something like that. I remember dreaming of the trees, and how they stretched so tall that it was impossible to see out from it. The only way out was by following these— markings? Someone carved letters on the trunks.” She traces the familiar shapes of them with her fingers, following the swirls of brush strokes on the canvas. “It was—”

“The Greek alphabet,” Bellamy breathes, brows drawing together in clear confusion. “ _I_ did that. It’s— there was a patch of woods right behind my house, and Octavia used to get lost in them all the time. It was my way— my Ariadne’s thread.”

She can feel her breath catching in her throat, seizing at her lungs. “Hang on— are you saying— this is all _real_?”

“What’s on the canvas next to this one?”

Shifting, she angles the light towards the next one. A boy on a porch swing, facing out to a slight rise of hills. She remembered liking the detail on this one; the chipped mint paint of the floorboards, the rust on the iron of the swing.

“That’s my house,” he says, his voice soft with wonder. “Right past the hills, there was this really rundown set of playground equipment. I used to bring Octavia there every time my mom got into one of her moods.”

She closes her eyes, letting out a shaky laugh. “The one with the roundabout.”

“Yeah.”

“You fell off once, right? I remember. I woke up, and I wet the bed because I had never seen so much blood in my life.” She can’t help it now, she’s laughing, her breaths coming short and her head spinning. “I never _dreamt_ of it. I was seeing flashes of your life. You’ve been in my head, all this time. I just thought I made you up.”

He’s laughing now, too; his vision shifting frantically as he paces, rucking his hands through his hair impatiently. “ _Jesus,_ it all makes sense, now. Did you— was there a pier, near your place, back when you were a kid?”

“Oh my God, _yes._ ” She claps a hand over her mouth, biting at her lip to keep her giggles from erupting. “My dad liked to look at the boats, so we would go every weekend.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, lost in thought. “That’s why, when Lincoln said your name was Clarke, I… I remembered it. It was familiar. I had this dream when I was a kid, of this girl standing by the edge of the water, and fuck, there was so much _hair_ flying in her face. Then someone said your name, and you turned around, and— I _remembered_ it, Clarke. I remember.”

She laughs, this one more watery than the last. There’s some sort of emotion blooming in her chest, something warm and overwhelming and _good_. It feels like she’s watching something monumental slide into place, somehow, the earth turning beneath her feet and realigning itself into what it was always meant to be. Bellamy was that force— the storm that shook everything out of place and held her steady, all the same. “God. You do realize that you’ve been my muse, all this time?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You drew me. You’ve been _drawing_ me,” he breaks off, his laugh shaky, “all your life.”

She turns on her heel, gaze sliding back to the mirror. He’s facing his too, the look in his eyes unreadable. Still, there’s a slight tilt to his lips, his eyes bright. “Stars,” she manages, lifting her hand to skim at his freckles. “Moon,” she continues, bringing it down to the crescent shaped scar at the edge of his mouth, before raising it up to his mess of curls, “clouds.”

“The sky,” he nods, exhaling shakily. “That’s why you draw me the way you do.”

“All this time,” she says wryly, letting her hand drop. “So. Piss off any deities when you were a kid?”

“Nah,” he says, easy. She’s not sure if he realizes that he’s lifted his hand so it’s level with her face, at the curve of her cheek. Thumb at her jaw, pinkie brushing at her lashes if he could touch her. So close, and yet impossibly far. “I’m starting to think that I did something right, after all.”

 

+

It’s not like things are all that different, after that, but they’re not the same either.

They still drop in on each other everyday, and she still insists that he watches terrible TV shows with her while he continues grumbling about her poor laundering skills— except now, there’s a kind of undercurrent to all of it, a longing that he knows has to do with the perpetual ache in his chest; has to do with the fact that he’s pretty much in love with a girl that he’s only ever seen in his head.

There’s a part of him that’s tempted to just _tell_ her, really, but it feels unfair with everything that has been going on with her life. She has enough on her plate as it is, and adding to it just because of his own distinctly non-platonic feelings towards her feels incredibly selfish, somehow.

(Besides, it’s never just been about feelings, for him. He loves her in a way that’s hard to explain— in the kind of all-encompassing, absolute way that comes from knowing someone inside out. He’s seen her kindness and her shrewdness and her calm; her ability to manipulate as well as her ability find the good in someone, to believe in them. He sees her, good and bad, grey and in between, and he wants all of it; wants all of her.)

And it’s not like he can complain about the way things are going, anyway. He gets to see her all the time, gets to _be_ with her, and it’s enough. It’s hard not to be grateful when her voice is the last thing he hears before sleep; the blue of her eyes the first thing that comes to mind in the morning.

The only time he ever really, _truly_ minds is when she wakes him up in the middle of the night— a insistent, familiar tug, pulling him up to the surface and leaving him blinking owlishly in the half-light of his room.

Which is, incidentally, what she decides to do the night before his dissertation is due.

“Get up, Bell.”

Groaning, he throws an arm over his eyes, burrowing deeper into his sheets. “What?”

“C’mon,” she says, and he can practically hear the smile in her voice at it, teasing and playful and so distinctly _Clarke_ that he has to close his eyes to keep from imagining it. “You’re going to regret it if you miss out.”

“If this is because The Bachelorette finale is on tonight, I swear to _God_ —”

“That’s on Friday and you know it,” she chirps, beaming. Then, her tone going chiding, “Don’t act like you’re not invested in Monroe’s future happiness.”

“I’m not.”

“So you were all mad when she booted Riley off last week, because…?”

Yawning, he cracks open an eyelid, taking in her surroundings. Night sky, and trees, and a small scattering of people, all speaking in hushed voices and soft giggles. “Because Monroe’s prone to self-sabotage and you know it,” he frowns, pulling himself up on his elbows. “Wait, where are you again?”

“The park,” she says, hitting at her phone so he gets a prime view of her eyebrow, followed by the edge of her jaw before she steadies the camera. “Apparently, there’s going to be a comet passing by in five minutes. I did some research and you’re going to be able to see it from outside your dorm, so. I’ll get dressed if I were you.”

Blinking the grit out of his eyes, he stumbles to his feet, peering out of the window. It’s dark, but he thinks he makes out a few vague silhouettes in the distance. “Seriously?”

“As serious as standing out in the cold in nothing but my pyjamas is,” she says, wry. “Get a move on, Blake. You’re wasting precious time here.”

“I can see it fine from my window,” he grumbles, but he’s already sliding on a pair of jeans anyway, grabbing at his coat. The roof will be empty, he’s sure, so at least he can get some peace and quiet there. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he eases the door shut with his foot, setting off down into the corridor. “You do know that most of the time they aren’t visible, right?” he points out, just as he rounds the corner and heads up the stairs. “Just in case you have your hopes up.”

She makes a small, absent noise in response, shrugging. “I have a good feeling about this one, if that makes sense.”

“No. But then again, neither does waking me up at three in the morning to see it,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck to ease the knots there. “If I don’t see anything within five minutes, I’ll literally fall asleep right there.”

“At least you’ll get a nice view doing it.”

“Cute,” he deadpans, emerging up onto the roof. It’s bitterly cold, and he has to bury his face into the collar of his coat to keep from shivering. “ _Jesus._ Tell me it’s warmer up on your end.”

“Probably,” she says, giving a small laugh when he spins on his heel, giving her a complete look at his view. “No fair, you’re going to get a way better look at it than I am.”

“If I don’t lose a toe first, sure.”

“Let’s not talk about losing any sort of orifices while we wait for a humongous ball of gas and ice to hurtle through the sky.”

“And _I’m_ the one who takes the romance out of everything?” he teases, tilting his head back. “At least I don’t—”

The rest of his response dies at the back of his throat at the sight of it; a bolt of silver light arcing down the sky. Dimly, he registers Clarke’s excited yelp as the comet seems to split apart, separating into waves of blues and purples.

“Wow,” he breathes, a laugh escaping. “Are you seeing this, Princess? Holy shit. It’s just— wow.”

“I see it,” she says, shaky, and he catches sight of her phone screen as she lifts it up to the sky to take a photo. “I have never— this is probably the most amazing thing I’ve seen all my life.”

He ducks at his chin, chuckling. Then, mostly because he can’t resist, “Second only to seeing me shirtless, right?”

She groans, loud enough to make him wince at the volume of it. “Really? Right at this beautiful moment?”

“I was checking to see if you were paying attention,” he manages, taking a careful step back and turning on his heel to take it all in. He thinks he spots another flash of white, right by the corner of his eye, and it’s a little hard to discern if it’s coming from his end or hers, but—

It’s _Clarke_.

For a second, he’s almost convinced he’s hallucinating, but there she is, staring up at the same view as he is. Hair in a braid, and still in her flannel pyjamas from before. She’s not physically in the same space as he is, he realizes, his gaze catching on the faint shadows of the other people around her— but right at this exact, precise moment, with the stars falling from the sky— he _sees_ her.

“Never mind,” he says, swallowing hard. One step forward, then another. “I know you are.”

That catches her attention, at any rate; her brows coming together as she cocks at her chin. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, stepping forward. “I see you.”

She spots him, then, her eyes going wide and her mouth dropping open to gape. For a breathless, heart-stopping second, he thinks she might actually throw her arms around him, her body lurching forward instinctively before she comes to a halt, hands falling back to her sides.

“Hi,” she laughs, her gaze raking over him shamelessly; taking him in.

It’s all he can manage for her, too, grinning _stupidly_ back at her. “Hi,” he says, working to keep his voice even. “Christmas miracle, you think?”

“Maybe,” she says, soft. Then, so quickly he nearly misses it, she reaches out, fingers grazing at the edge of his thumb— right where she had drawn her comet, all those months back. It’s faint, but he _feels_ it anyway— tangible, though not entirely there. “Stay and watch the stars with me?”

Nodding, he stretches his hand out, just barely pressing his fingers against the jut of her knuckles. “Yeah,” he says, hoarse, as the sky before them continues to rain down with stars, turning the world pink and blue and gold, “of course I will.”

 

+

It’s not much of a stretch to tell Bellamy that she’ll be busy working on a new piece all day— technically, she _has_ to work on some new pieces to update her portfolio— so she doesn’t feel all that bad about going radio silent, really.

Besides, it’s a lot easier to get everything packed up without him micromanaging by her ear (she keeps telling him that it’s one of the things he needs to work on, but considering her own tendencies, it’s a bit of a pot and kettle sort of situation), and with the collective effort of Wells, Raven and Lincoln, she manages to fit everything into two duffel bags by mid-afternoon.

“I still think you’re crazy for doing this,” Raven mutters, swatting her arm away when she attempts to maneuver one of her bags into the check-in counter. “Seriously, Clarke. I’ll be the first to admit that the Internet is a powerful force of nature and all, but meeting someone you barely know is skeeving me out.”

It’s not a completely unfounded sentiment if any of it was true in the first place, and she has to make an effort to keep from laughing at the _irony_ of it. “I’ve been talking to him for almost a year now,” she reminds her, nudging at her elbow gently. “I would say that I know him a little too well.”

“Please,” Raven says, waving her off. “That’s about the same amount of time you knew Finn.”

“I could have known Finn for about eight years and he’d still somehow end up being a self-absorbed, narcissistic jerk,” Clarke points out, fishing her passport out of her duffel. Still, there’s genuine _worry_ creasing at Raven’s brow, so she tries again. “And it’s not— really about the length of the time you’ve known someone, you know? At least not for me. I just— I have a good feeling about this, Rae. About him.”

That pulls a half laugh from her, at least. “Of course you do,” she huffs, dropping her bag onto the counter with a _thump._ “The guy’s a specimen.”

“Please never tell him that.”

“He’s not going to hear me all the way from Virginia,” Raven grumbles, rolling at her eyes. Then, sobering slightly, “Promise you’ll call me when your plane lands?”

“Yeah,” she manages through the lump in her throat, reaching over to weave their fingers together. “The second I land, okay? And a text after I meet him. Just to let you know I haven’t been murdered.”

“Or committed a murder.”

She snorts, shaking at her head. Distantly, she thinks she makes out the sound of her flight being announced, with boarding to commence in five minutes. “Unlikely, but I’ll keep you informed.”

“You better,” Raven mutters, before pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. “Take care, Griffin. Or I’ll come down myself and whoop your ass.”

“I will,” she promises, squeezing at her shoulder companionably before pulling away. “And I’ll check my emails regularly, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she smiles, pushing lightly at her shoulder. “Now go. You’re going to miss your flight otherwise.”

She manages one last hug before she lets herself get swept up in the crowd, hurrying to her seat before it gets way too crowded to move along the narrow aisles. It’s easy to get settled considering her lone duffel, and she makes sure to check through her messages before any of the announcements comes on, buckling at her seatbelt fluidly.

There are a couple of emails and messages for her to look at, but she skims past them in favor of going through his— a whole string of them from a few hours back.

 

 **Bellamy:** Okay I know you’re busy so feel free to ignore this, but

 **Bellamy:** Don’t get too caught up in your work and remember to actually do some basic human stuff like eat and shower

 **Bellamy:** Contrary to popular belief, your paintings aren’t going to run away from you if you take five minutes to chow down a bagel

 **Bellamy:** but anyway

 **Bellamy:** start with a city of bricks and leave it a city of marble

 **Bellamy:** augustus.

 **Bellamy:** You got this.

 

 _Nerd._ Biting back a smile, she stows her phone away, pressing her face against the cool glass of the window pane just as the plane begins to rumble down the tarmac— the airport fading into specks of light before finally disappearing from sight.

 

+

He’s emerging from his second class of the day when she calls—his screen lighting up with a grainy, too-close selfie of her pulling a face, tongue poking through her teeth and eyes crossed.

Swearing, he fumbles for it, nearly spilling his coffee in the process before righting himself. “Hey,” he manages, once his heart rate is back down to acceptable levels, “how you holding up, Princess?”

“Hey,” she says, laughing. “Bad time?”

Grimacing, he wipes his coffee-soaked hands against his jeans, sliding his phone into the crook of his neck. “Nah, you’re good. How’s the painting going?”

She makes a noncommittal sound at that, absent. “Uh, not that great, I guess? I keep getting distracted.”

“You know, this is why I keep telling you that playing old episodes of your favorite TV shows as _background_ noise isn’t a good idea.” He frowns, taking a sip from his cup. The coffee’s gone cold, but it’s not like he can afford to be picky. “Seriously. Have you thought about trying out podcasts, though?”

“Kind of sounds like it’s going to be even more distracting, considering how I’ll have to pay attention to keep up with what’s going on.”

“Probably,” he concedes, hefting his pack higher up against his shoulder. “So, what was your poison today? Friends? Wait, no, I bet it’s one of those shows on TLC. 19 kids and counting?”

“Without you?” she asks, sounding scandalized. He barely manages to hold back on his laugh at it, somehow managing to restrain himself to a snort instead. “But nah. I was just really caught up, watching this guy try to pick up his phone and not drop all his stuff at once. You should have been there, Bell. Hilarious.”

He pauses, thoughts scrambling to make sense of what she’s saying. “I’m sorry, what?”

“This guy,” she continues, oblivious. “I don’t know, kind of cute, I guess? His phone just started buzzing, and you should have seen his face. He got all excited, and flustered and it was just— I mean, what a nerd. But, still. Cute.”

“Uh,” he says, pivoting on his heel. “Are you— did you drop in? Because I can’t see out on your end.”

“You can’t see what I’m up to?”

“Clarke—”

“I’m just going up to say hi,” she interjects. “Hold on.”

“This doesn’t— _hello_?”

He pulls his phone back, swearing. She _hung up_ on him. He’s considering if he should drop her a text when he realizes that there’s someone at his elbow, a pair of footfalls coming to a stop right—

“Hey,” the voice says, and he’s pretty sure he loses all coherent thought in that split second because it sounds exactly like _Clarke,_ and somehow or the other, she’s standing right next to him.

Something must show on his face because it pulls a smile from her, teasing and fond and everything he has imagined in the past few months. “You know,” she says with feigned nonchalance, barely able to conceal the wobble in her voice, “I have to say, I expected a warmer welcome than this.”

He shakes at his head to clear it, blinking. His emotions are a confusing jumble in his chest, disbelief and absolute, immense _happiness_ warring against his ribs. “You’re— you’re actually here?”

“I jumped on a plane,” she shrugs, perfectly reasonable. “It’s ten hours by car, which seemed—”

He’s moving before he can really think about it, taking her face in his hands and _kissing_ her with everything he never dared tell her before, with everything that he’s only dared think about in the middle of the night, in the safety of half-sleep. He can hear her gasp against him; a small, muffled noise before he pulls away, remembering himself.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, swallowing hard. “I shouldn’t have— I wasn’t thinking—”

Then she’s kissing _him,_ soft and unbearably tender, laughing against his lips when he bumps noses with her in his haste to reciprocate.

“That’s a lot better of a welcome than I was expecting,” she murmurs, threading her fingers through his hair, and it’s impossible for him to keep from smiling, really, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. “Hi.”

“Hey there, Princess,” he whispers, stroking at the rise of her cheek with his thumb. He can’t stop _touching_ her, which is probably going to be an issue sooner or later. “Is it weird if I tell you I missed you?”

She presses a kiss against his jaw, the side of his nose. “Nope. It was a very uneventful day without you, if I’m being entirely honest.”

“How,” he stops, finally catching sight of the duffel bags slung over her shoulder. “Did you bring _everything_?”

“Yeah,” she says, shooting him a small smile. Then, haltingly, “It’s not— really a visit, if I’m being honest. I might have applied for a scholarship to the Arts History programme here a few months back.”

It’s clear to see that she’s nervous, so he makes sure to drop a reassuring kiss against her forehead, the curve of her eyelid. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says, pulling her close. “I just,” he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells of citrus and pear and paint, and it’s a lot to process all at once. “I don’t want you making any decisions on my account, okay? I can’t— I wouldn’t be able to bear it if you did this for my sake, or—”

“Bell,” she cuts in, butting her forehead against his shoulder gently. “I didn’t, okay? It’s as much for my sake as it is for yours. I was _drowning,_ back home. Maybe— maybe you were one of the reasons why I came here, but not entirely either.” She stops, teeth snagging against her bottom lip. Then, her voice steady, “Remember what you said? About looking out for my happiness?”

He reaches out, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah.”

“This is it,” she tells him, leaning into his touch. “Being here, being with you. Simple as that.”

(Logically, there’s a part of him that knows it’s never that easy, that things are never that simple, and _yet_. Somehow, he believes her.)

“Okay,” he says, taking her hand; her thumb instinctively tracing the length of his, a familiar shape over and over again. “Want a quick tour of our life, Princess?”

Clarke reaches up to press a kiss against his cheek, slow and lingering and a thousand fucking flowers blooming in his chest, “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

+

(In the end, after everything’s been said and done, she finds his soul mark in the space between his shoulder blades.

“Hey,” she murmurs, nuzzling her face against his neck, nipping at his throat. “Did you know?”

He makes a soft, drowsy noise, fingers still skating across hers against the small of her back— identical stars, lines soft and sharp all at once. “No, but I hoped.” He admits, quiet. “It doesn’t change anything, though. Even if you weren’t— we weren’t— I would have chose you anyway.”

She doesn’t know how he does it, really; how he always manages to unravel every single one of her tangled, messy thoughts, laying it down in words. “You’re such a romantic,” she teases, kicking lightly at his shin. “Bellamy Blake: poet.”

“Shut up.”

Making a contented noise, she snuggles up into his side, pressing her face against his chest. “Fine,” she yawns, stroking at his side. “You should get some sleep anyway. We have places to be, later.”

A beat, his fingers tangling with hers. “Nowhere else I rather be,” he tells her, soft, right as she closes her eyes, the world fading out into nothing but the slow, even thump of his pulse.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing a celebration this year by filling out some bellarke fall/halloween themed prompts, so go send me a prompt on prosciuttoe.tumblr.com if you want!


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